Read Online South of Haunted Dreams by Eddy L. Harris - Free Book Online

bit of privacy, to give all the waitresses an equal shot at tips. Or.…
    Does he tuck me away in this corner to keep me out of sight? If yes, is he hiding me because I’m grubby, or because I’m black?
    The South wins again.
    I am black. I know that. I can’t stop being black. But I don’t have to be reminded at every turn, do I? I certainly don’t need to remind myself, to limit myself in that way. And it is limiting, confining. Once you start thinking in terms of race, everything that happens, every person you meet, every circumstance, everything on earth always gets defined in terms of race, ours and theirs, us and them. And everyone else becomes THOSE OTHER PEOPLE.
    It’s so tiring, the constant racism, the constant wondering and worrying, the constant vigilance. Is it this, is it that? It steals your energy, clogs your pores, makes your hair fall out. It makes your food taste funny.
    Did someone spit in my drink?
    A cute little waitress comes over, young and very happy, as if there might be nothing at all on her mind more important than her boyfriend. There’s a college nearby. She’s probably a student. She smiles sweetly. She pours iced tea into my glass.
    â€œDo you know what you’re going to have?”
    A burger, fries, and a small Caesar salad.
    â€œIs there someplace I can wash my hands?” I would like to sound as gruff as possible, displeased as I was about being stuck in the corner, but facing her smile and her politeness, it isn’t easy.
    â€œYes, sir.” She points. “Right through there and make a left.”
    When I come back I slouch across the booth. I lean back against the wall, arms folded across my chest, and put my feet up. I close my eyes, shut out thoughts and light. Darkness softly enfolds me.
    From somewhere I hear singing. Negro spirituals far in the distance. Someone singing the blues. “King” Oliver on Bourbon Street.
    A little black kid tapping my shoulder, asking if I need a shine, wearing the cap on his head backwards. In the barbershop behind him, black men beckoning but I can’t tell if they’re calling the boy or if they’re calling me. Big smiles. Happiness pouring out. Until the explosion. A bright light. The boy vanishes. The barbershop disappears in the flash.
    The sun has shifted. The bright sunlight streams through the window and stings my eyes. Rays of light cross the room, dust suspended and swirling in narrow shafts. I blink a couple of times to clear my vision.
    I must have dozed.
    Outside in the street, two motorcycles are roaring past. The bikes are old, the kind that make much noise and sound like cannon fire.
    One man rides solo, the other has a woman strapped to his back. Both men have long hair, their big potbellies bouncing on their thighs. The woman looks haggard and hard. She wears no helmet.
    I take a deep breath and smell food.
    The waitress has set my plate before me. She stands above me, smiling like an angel of mercy, holding the pitcher of tea, poised to pour more as soon as I nod yes.
    I smile kindly and thank her. Even if I wanted to be gruff, with her there it would be hard even to pretend. She disarms me with her own kindness.
    â€œHaving a hard day?”
    â€œAbout like all days,” I reply. “Thinking too much, I guess.”
    â€œWe all get those days now and again,” she says, sounding like an old veteran, preparing for a career of missed opportunities, still waiting tables when she is old and divorced with kids to put through school. I’m waiting for her to call me sugar, the way old waitresses often do.
    â€œAnd there’s nothing you can do about them,” she says, “but smile a little. I find it always helps if you smile a little. Sometimes it even helps you beat the heat.”
    She smiles.
    â€œIf you want more tea or if you need anything else, just holler.”
    I settle back and relax. The burger’s not bad.
    It comes to me now